When I Waked
by storm101
Summary: "...I cried to dream again." -(Shakespeare, The Tempest) A retelling of the Sleeping Beauty fable. During renovations to an older part of the palace, a bricked over chamber was discovered and within it a sleeping prince, who disappeared over a century ago. Cain's story has been revived with this new proof, but Riff wonders if there is more to his tale than currently known. (R/C)
1. Chapter 1

**See end of chapter for notes. **

* * *

The prince was admittedly attractive, Riff considered, studying the portrait more than the sleeping boy. With his self assurance and remarkable eyes, the portrait seemed more alive than the living body. Dead to the world, if nothing else. It was disconcerting, to see the portrait, a century old at least, and the living body of the prince, who had hardly changed since he'd sat for the painting. Disconcerting, particularly in the half light of early morning, well before dawn.

(_Has he said anything? _one maid had whispered to another.)

Riff pulled himself away from the bed and it's occupant, pacing fitfully, shoes making little noise upon the thick carpet of the bed chamber. He was beginning to regret sneaking in, but he needed answers. The prince-Cain-had caught the imagination of the entire court, and for many leagues beyond. It wasn't any wonder he, too, would be caught up in the romance of the story.

(Her friend had been derisive. _Idiot, he's asleep!_)

A story was all it ever had been.

(The maid was defensive. _What, you've never heard someone sleep talk?_)

A prince of the royal line had been cursed, had disappeared, had run away. He would sleep for a thousand years, or a hundred years, or ten years, unless his true love woke him with a kiss, a touch, a whispered word. His father had been distraught, or furious, had tried everything, or had allowed any girl to kiss him, or had permitted no one to see him.

(_Yeah, but that's normal sleep, this one's cursed.) _

The facts: there had been a prince named Cain Hargreaves, who had no records of later life or an early death, and no grave in the royal cemetery. And that was all Riff had believed. Until a sleeping boy had been found during renovations, curled peacefully in a room bricked over decades ago. And those facts had all changed.

(And then a third, in a hushed voice. _No, she's right. I heard him say something, a name._)

Riff stopped pacing and stood before the bed again, studying the sleeping prince's expression. He couldn't place it, the faint curve of his lips, couldn't decide if it was sad or relieved or satisfied. He wouldn't say smug. Smug was a tad uncharitable to be said aloud.

(The first had been elated. _A name! Oh, how romantic! Whose, whose?_)

Cain had captured everyone's imagination, including Riff's, but he was certain the unsettling grasp the sleeping boy had upon his thoughts was abnormal. So many had tried to wake him with a kiss, as the sorcerer who had confirmed the curse's existence said must happen, and all had failed. He had silently watched the disappointed women leave and felt an anger which scared him. Cain sighed and shifted again, a hand cradling his face as he turned over to face Riff. The blond footman backed away, tempted to flee.

(_Riffael. That's what it was. Riffael._)

Instead, the dregs of his resolve crumbled entirely, and he crept closer to kneel beside the bed. Carefully, Riff reached out and stroked soft, dark hair away from the pale forehead. If he hesitated any longer, he'd talk himself out of it. Riff leaned forward, and pressed a gentle kiss to the prince's cheek, then another one, shyer, to his lips.

One of them gasped.

Riff started to pull away instinctively, but a hand reached for his shoulder, another tangled itself in his hair, and he couldn't move. In the end, the prince pulled away first with a sleepy and extremely smug smile, propping himself up on his elbows to study Riff. "G'morning, Riffael," he said softly, voice higher than he had expected, but very rough. He stretched, back and shoulders popping, and then rubbed at the back of his neck with a pout. "Ow."

Belatedly, Riff closed his mouth.

The prince smiled again as he looked at him, before his eyes darkened faintly and it slipped with nerves. "Riffael, what is it?" he asked, eyes tracing his face. "You stare so, it makes me afraid something has happened…"

There was no answer for such a question, none which Riff could see. Besides which, words were a tad beyond him. He managed a humiliatingly strangled sound, swallowed, and tried again. "I- M-milord," he said instead, certain that wasn't what the proper address for a prince would be, but hoped it was acceptably neutral.

The prince's hesitation instantly turned to a frown, so he must have guessed wrong. "Riffael, I've asked you not to call me that!"

"B-but… sir…" Riff stammered out again. "I don't- I don't think-"

"Riffael…" he whispered, sitting up fully to study him in his turn. "Riffael, something's-something's gone wrong." He reached for the blond, cradling his face in both hands. Before, the prince's fingers had been so cold, but they were now warm. Riff's breath hitched. "Tell me," he pleaded, and then again in a more desperate demand, "Tell me!"

"How do you know my name?" Riff whispered. "My full name. I never use it, just Riff, because… I don't-Milord, what do you want of me?" He trembled.

The hands disappeared instantly, as did the warmth in his eyes. "You are not Riffael." He was so devastatingly cold.

"I-that is my name."

"But you do not know me."

"No."

"Then why-" but the question cut off abruptly, and the prince looked away. "Tell me what has happened since I slept," he ordered. Riff answered before he realized he did, the commanding and distant tone far more familiar and comfortable than the closeness, the affection.

"Excavations, in preparation of renovating the older sections of the palace, discovered the bricked up bedchamber where you lay. Your story slipped into legend, milord, so I am afraid I don't properly know."

"Legend?" the prince demanded immediately, pale skin going, if possible, paler. "What do you mean? How long has it been?"

"King Alexis passed nearly a hundred years ago," Riff said softly. "That… that was your father, correct? You are… ah, beg pardon, but you are Cain Hargreaves…?"

"Yes," the young man said softly. "…Yes. I am Cain Hargreaves." His shoulders had bowed with the weight of so many years, and Riff wondered what could be done in comfort. What might be acceptable.

"Milord-" he started, and trailed off uncertainly.

"It's nothing," he snapped, and stood, and swayed. Riff shot to his feet and steadied him, guiding him back to the bed.

"Sir, are you-"

"Go away," the prince ordered, burying his face in his hands. "I can't look at you, not when you are so much- go away! Leave me in peace."

"Sir, perhaps you should-" Riff wanted to reach for him again, to touch his shoulder and offer support, but swallowed back the words, feeling lost.

(_And I'm not sure about romantic, _she had added. _I thought it was sad. Anyone he knew must be dead by now, so whoever Riffael is… They'll never see each other again._)

The prince glared at him, eyes reddened with suppressed tears. "I said go!" He seized upon the nearby pillow and flung it towards him with another shout.

(_The romance is in the tragedy! _the first one had declared, bossily.)

Riff didn't protest any further, and fled. Glancing back to see the prince burying his face in the pillow, he nearly returned. Instead, he continued, sympathy, pity, and worry for Cain warring within him.

(_Still, I wonder what the prince dreams._)

* * *

**A/N: It has been too long since I have written a multi-chapter fic for this fandom. I know I promised a sequel to _Quite Contrary, _but I've been obsessing over fairy tales far too much lately. Besides, this shouldn't be particularly long. It's not completed, but I do have a decent idea of where it will go, and I expect it to take... perhaps 5-7 chapters. Since it is incomplete, expect updates to be rather slow and sporadic.**

**Thank you for taking the time to read! Any and all reviews are welcome-advice or complaints or suggestions or comments... I read and reply to them all. **


	2. Chapter 2

**See end of chapter for notes. **

* * *

According to the gossip, the king had found the prince fully conscious and paging lazily through a book sometime the next morning. After the uproar that could be expected from such an event, the court settled slowly into its old routines, one member added.

Cain was adopted by his ruling cousin as son and heir, as King Neil was childless. The prince himself was clever, charming, graceful, and mostly open to conversations, regaling the court with lively stories of an age passed. He listened and watched, and learned very quickly of the new society he had landed in.

It became very simple for Riff to avoid him, though never easy. The kiss haunted him, worry for Cain interrupting other tasks, absent thoughts about how the prince was adjusting, whether he was happy, intruding upon his mind in utter disregard for Riff's wishes. It was rather humiliating, let alone dangerous, to harbor such an obsessive affection, but try as he might, Riff couldn't stop. He worked harder than ever in the hopes of exhausting himself, and ignoring the question the staff had latched upon.

_Who would serve the new prince? _

He would need a manservant, of course-with his rank, it was shocking he hadn't requested one already. For the moment, Neil's manservant was managing for him as well, but that wouldn't be able to continue for much longer.

Riff had done such a good job putting the question out of his mind that when the head of staff called him to his study he was only confused.

"Yes, sir?"

"Ah, there you are. You're to report to the prince's rooms tonight after supper."

"I-sir?"

The man, impatient and rushed at the best of times, glared at him. "He's finally taking a manservant and he's asked that it be you. Out, I have far too much-"

Riff nodded, bowed and left, feeling more confused than ever. Grateful, yes, there were many others who would have angled for the position and fought tooth and nail to be where he was, but he was only… lost, and no longer certain what the prince thought of him.

He reported after dinner as requested, and found Cain sitting at the table, examining a book, a history from the library. The prince looked up as Riff stopped in the doorway, his eyes narrowing. The servant folded his hands behind his back and kept his eyes on the floor, knowing Cain was inspecting him, looking for something-but he was utterly unsure what he was looking for. That elusive Riffael, in all likelihood.

"Don't just stand there," Cain finally said, closing the book and placing it to one side. "Come in, and shut the door behind you." Riff obeyed, but Cain seemed finished, resting his chin on his hands and staring out the window. The fire was nearly out, so Riff went to the hearth to rebuild it, eager for something to do. The room was very bare in comparison to some: no tapestries, few decorations, furnished only by the bed, dresser, table and chairs. Surprisingly modest, from everything Riff had heard speculated about the prince's tastes. Perhaps the prince still didn't feel at home, or welcome, to leave the room as un-lived in as possible.

Flowers, perhaps, as a simple decoration… Some color against the gray stones of the castle.

"What was your name?"

Riff looked up from the grate. "Riff, milord."

Cain was still staring out the window. "Which is short for Riffael." His shoulders were tense, though the servant couldn't see his face.

"Yes."

"An unusual name."

"I never asked my mother it's origin, I'm afraid." Riff settled another log carefully over the living coals, taking a sheaf of paper to fan it into a flame. "I've always gone simply by Riff." He dusted his hands and tugged upon the cuffs of his sleeves, to keep them down.

Cain hummed some form of agreement. "Do you have a last name?"

"Not particularly, milord, and certainly not one of any importance." There didn't seem to be much else to do. The bed was made, and it was far too early to turn down the covers. The room was too neat to need much tidying. Riff tried not to fidget.

"Have you always been a servant?" The prince had finally looked away from the window, studying him out of the corner of his eye.

"No sire, but I was not worth much before hand."

This caught the prince's attention and he straightened, looking at him fully. Riff was nearly grateful for the difference in rank, as it gave him the perfect excuse to avoid eye contact and not acknowledge the quickening of his heart. He swallowed.

"Not worth much?" the prince repeated, nearly indignantly, but caught himself and shook his head. "Never mind. I shouldn't pry so." Cain lapsed into silence, rubbing one finger absently along the table grain. "I don't consider myself particularly high maintenance, so you shouldn't have much to do aside from the normal expectations. Caring for my clothing, linens, bathing, shoes, so on and so forth, picking up after me as well, I'm afraid. I can tell you right now that there will definitely be days when I will demand to be left alone, and I expect you to allow for such moods. I've been informed you tend to be particularly accommodating."

Riff nodded, but remained silent, unsure if this was a compliment or not. Cain glanced towards him again, but said nothing more on the subject. "An early night, I believe."

"Yes, sir. Shall I ready you for bed, then, or assist you with-"

"No," Cain said, more sharply this time, and walked past him to the changing screen. "I'll undress myself, thank you."

"Of course," Riff agreed, and went to the fireplace again, to fill the warming pan with hot coals. He ran it lightly over the sheets before readjusting the counterpane to keep the warmth in, and returned the warming pan to its place by the hearth. He snuffed most of the candles, but left the book where it was.

Cain returned from behind the dressing screen in a long nightshirt and slid into bed, while Riff ventured behind to gather the used clothes into the nearby basket. "Will there be anything else, sir?" he asked when this was done, standing beside the table.

"I don't eat much for breakfast," Cain said. "Some fruit will suffice, and perhaps some bread."

"Yes, milord." He waited for another moment, but Cain seemed to have finished, though he still watched Riff with those oddly deep eyes. The servant snuffed the last few candles and closed the door.

Cain remained upright for several long minutes, staring at the door with his arms wrapped around his knees.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I wasn't expecting five reviews in less than a week... Wow. So, I'm going to go ahead and post the second bit-and the only bit I have left that's continuous to this. It will definitely be longer until the third chapter, given the third chapter isn't written yet... I still have a couple of lingering decisions to make, and I really do need to outline and then write the rest of this. **

**Really, though, thank you all so much for taking the time to read and review! I get really happy every time it happens-particularly grateful, as exams are happening for me right now. **

* * *

**Anonymous Review Responses:**

**Pikeeboo: **I'm admittedly imagining Riff being Riffael's reincarnation, yeah. At least, for the moment. It might be slightly more complicated than that, though I doubt it. I'm rather fascinated by the concept of reincarnation, so it pops up again and again in fics, regardless. I also toyed with the curse being more straightforward and Riff having never loved him in a past life and there being other requirements, but this version of the story won out. Thank you for the kind review, and your anticipation!

**Kielo**:Ah, talented! Thank you so much! I try, but I'm never quite certain I succeed. And oh, the _Godchild _fandom, bane of my existence... It's a wonderful work and deserves more attention and life in it's fandom, mostly. I'm being over dramatic... I'm glad you await another installment, though. I hope my work continues to be good!

**Thank you to all of my reviewers, as always. Everyone seems to be anticipating the next chapters. Well, I'll try to have something written soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

**See end of chapter for notes. **

* * *

It started with the lobelia.

Well, to be honest, Riff wasn't entirely certain where it had started, just that it had started somewhere and he could trace the series of events which led to the journal, but he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it became inevitable, so the lobelia would do.

In the intervening two weeks, Cain's chambers had seen half a dozen different bouquets, all picked in the silent hours before dawn. Most of the flowers grew wild, though there was the occasional bloom guiltily purloined from the gardens.

Cain hardly seemed to notice the flowers. He certainly had enough admirers that a bouquet of flowers exacted little notice, but he never commented upon them within Riff's hearing, or gave any hint whether the gesture was appreciated. More often than not, the flowers were picked apart long before they had begun to wilt. It was frustrating, but Riff merely swept up the leaves and petals which had fallen prey to the prince's nervous fidgeting and said nothing. A fresh bouquet appeared each morning.

"That's rather threatening, isn't it?" Cain observed during breakfast, gesturing with his spoon towards the tall vase of irises. Riff frowned, not following.

"It's… a vase of flowers, sir," he finally said. The only threat he could think of hidden in a vase of flowers might be a toxin, or a perhaps a curse, but he had brought them and was quite certain irises were harmless. Besides, who would eat flowers which were clearly meant as decoration?

"Mm," Cain hummed, taking a slow sip of his water. "But it's a vase of lobelia, specifically." They… weren't irises? Seeing that no realization had come over his servant, Cain continued. "Before, there were associations between certain flowers and certain meanings. Everyone had to know them, or you could pay someone a grave insult rather than a compliment." He shrugged. "Another cultural difference… Lobelias were associated with malevolence, which I highly doubt was the intention." Poison green eyes flicked to Riff, and for a moment the servant felt as if they shared some private joke. "It is an amusing connection, at any rate."

"I… see, milord."

After which, decorating the prince's room became much, much more complicated than Riff had foreseen.

In an act of self preservation, Riff had investigated the older sections of the records, hoping to find further references to this code. He was more successful than he had really expected, uncovering a dusty herbarium with cracking pages, which contained detailed sketches of the various flower along with their general meanings. (Riff forgave himself for the mixup between iris, "faith; wisdom; valor" and lobelia, "malevolence," only upon seeing just how similarly shaped they were.)

He also discovered a thin, battered journal addressed upon the first page to Cain Hargreaves.

Riff stood in the silence of the record hall for several minutes, curiosity struggling against the knowledge that Cain would know if he read this, and would likely be displeased.

Whatever understanding of the prince he might gain would not be worth Cain's anger, particularly should it be enough to lead to a dismissal.

He should take the journal, or message, or whatever it was, directly to Cain. It was, after all, addressed to him.

Riff flipped the cover closed again, sending up a small dust cloud, before tucking the volume under one arm and walking directly to Cain's room. He left the journal on the table, accompanied by a note explaining that he'd discovered the journal in the records hall and as it had Cain's name on the title page, he had left it here for him to read.

With that, Riff left to find out what had happened to Cain's laundry.

* * *

Later that night, Riff returned to Cain's rooms as was usual, to stoke the fire and receive any instructions for the next day. He found Cain sitting at the table, staring at the little volume he had left earlier that day, face entirely blank. His eyes were red.

"Milord?"

Cain straightened abruptly, and glanced towards him. "Have you read this?"

"No, sir," Riff said, pleased it was the truth.

"I see." The words were clipped around the edges, and the prince still hadn't looked at him. "Get out. No, wait-" Cain stopped, and covered his eyes with one hand. Riff watched him silently. His hands itched to hold him, comb through his hair and _help, _but he knew how that would end. At long last, Cain took a deep breath and said, without removing his hand, "I just… I need you away from me tomorrow. Entirely."

"Of course, milord," Riff agreed. It had happened more than once already, Cain ordering him away. The lack of yelling was actually encouraging.

"Do you never ask questions?" Cain whispered. He raised his hand slightly, but didn't look in Riff's direction. "You have no ego, no ambition. You never ask why I treat you the way I do, or ask for an explanation, or… I actually believe you when you say you didn't read this! I don't understand you."

Riff remained silent. Cain was speaking more to himself than to him, after all, and even so he didn't know what to say.

With a sigh, Cain pushed the book across the table. "Read it. You deserve more of an explanation I've given you. I can't be an easy master." It was the closest Cain had ever come to an apology, and far more than Riff had expected.

Nothing more was said, so Riff banked the fire and placed Cain's night shirt behind the changing screen, and lay out the breeches and tunic for tomorrow. He picked the book up before he left the room.

"Riff." The servant paused, turning his head in acknowledgement but too much of a coward to look back at Cain. "If… If you have questions after that-" His hand tightened on the book, the pages crinkling. "Ask them tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The journal was more of a letter, and ran as follows:

_To Cain Hargreaves _

_ I don't know what else to do. If you wake someday, I know you'll demand an explanation. There's no certainty this letter will still be around, but it is all I can do. _

_ First, though, three statements must be made: It was not Riffael's choice. We underestimated your father's fury. This was your idea. _

_ I've never seen Alexis in such a temper as he had when he discovered you the next morning. I think he knew I had everything to do with the curse, but he couldn't kill me with no explanation. My powers were too valuable, and there was every chance I could escape before being confined. So, Alexis came up with a different take on the situation. _

_ I write this because I believe you would rather hear it from a friend than from the annals of history. Perhaps it is not news to you, perhaps it is. _

_ Alexis had never offered a decent explanation for Riffael's imprisonment, you remember, and he used that to his advantage. Riffael was put on trial for treason. Alexis "explained" to the council that Riffael was in league with an unknown enemy, who had wished to curse you. Riffael had willingly given this witch the access needed, resulting in your current state. He twisted it, my friend. He painted you as a victim and Riffael as a traitor and brushed the whole thing under the rug. _

_ I didn't get the chance to speak with Riffael alone before his execution. He was composed. The beheading was quick. His final words were to Alexis. "Your lies will be learned. I always loved him." They were struck from the record, but you should know them. You need to know he died loving you. When you wake-if you wake-I know you well enough that you'll be afraid, that you'll wonder if Riffael abandoned you. Cain, my friend, it wasn't his choice. _

_ There's not much else to tell you. Alexis used the trial and the supposed enemy as an excuse for war. You were right when he said he needed an heir, at least, and he poured every spare effort into finding someone who could wake you. But you were right when you realized only Riffael would be able to, and by the time Alexis realized this, Riffael had been dead for three days. _

_ The whole farce sickens me. _

_ I write this now, before I leave Cornwall. If I hear you've woken, maybe I'll come back. Maybe I'll make you come find me. _

_ I wish you the best. _

_ Dominic Crehador_

* * *

**A/N: There's a bit more of an explanation, at least. Crehador didn't mention the fact that Alexis sent for Riffael's severed head, when he did realize Cain wouldn't wake for anyone else. That would have been a bit tactless, and more upsetting than is necessary. **

**Some more answers should be coming in the next chapter! Riff finally asks some questions.**

**Also, please forgive me over-use of the Language of Flowers. Victorian though it may be, it's always fascinated me. Besides, I just wrote a rather lengthy paper on its use, so it was extremely fresh on my mind. **

**This story is also getting more complex than I intended it to, or expected it to. The original estimation of around 10,000 words... might not be so accurate anymore. I'm not sure, to be honest.**

**Ah well. **

**No Anonymous Review responses because no anonymous reviewers! I'll see you all next chapter. **


	4. Chapter 4

**See end of chapter for notes. **

* * *

The story was simple to figure out, once he had the letter, and Riff had most of the details aligned without needing to talk to Cain. Alexis had discovered the affair between Cain and Riffael, and had had Riffael imprisoned. Cain had attempted to fight back, had failed. The curse had been voluntary, and the only person capable of waking the prince had been executed, without the opportunity to even try. So much was straight forward. And yet…

And yet.

Riff waited until the late, dusky hours after dinner before knocking at the prince's door.

"Enter." Cain glanced towards him, before turning back to a bouquet of roses, shredding one of the blooms. "I'd wondered when you'd come," he said quietly. "Sit, please. There's no reason you should be forced to stand while we're talking, and if you don't sit you'll only end up fiddling with things, and that's distracting."

"Fiddling with things, sire?" Riff repeated, but took the chair opposite.

Cain twirled the stem of the half destroyed rose around long fingers. "Straightening the bedclothes, putting another log on the fire, straightening the napkins and that sort of thing. I've never seen you not work." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Just… I'm nervous enough for the both of us."

Unsure how to reply to this, Riff only changed the subject. "Do you dislike roses, my lord?" He hadn't sent these, but he had included the blossoms in his own bouquets before. It would be best to know.

"There are far more creative ways to express love," Cain dismissed, but dropped the remains of the blossom as if only just noticing what he'd been doing. "Roses are a worn cliche, and hardly unique. But we're both avoiding the subject. The letter?"

"Here it is," Riff said, placing the volume upon the table between them. "I don't have very many questions, sire. Really, only one."

"Yes? And?"

Riff hesitated. "…Would you… tell me about Riffael? Please."

Cain stared at him, and when he finally swallowed, it looked painful. "Why?"

For once, Riff met his eyes steadily. "Riffael was important to you, sire. You loved him, and you're grieving, and I wonder if talking about him wouldn't help. Besides, I am curious," he finally admitted, lacing and unlacing his fingers. "That I resemble him is obvious. You've mistaken me for him before. Is it so surprising I would wish to know more of him?"

Cain sighed, and rubbed at his eyes. "The surprise is that you've only now asked," he said. "And that it's only now you've referenced waking me."

"Both were subjects you clearly wished to forget, sir."

The prince close his eyes, but sat back and began to speak. "I didn't wish to forget," he said quietly. "I never wished to forget. It was… painful, to think of it. And your involvement confused me, entirely, and still does. But… Riffael. Who was Riffael? My lover, my love, though I expect you've gathered as much. I first met him on a hunting trip. He was twenty three, then, and I was twelve. It was my first attempt at a hunt, a misguided attempt by my father to make me more of a man. I twisted my ankle within the first mile and, as I didn't want to be walking through the forest in the first place, slightly exaggerated the injury. Riffael was the greenest knight on the trip, and volunteered to stay with me and help me back to the castle…" Cain smiled slightly, propping his chin upon one hand. "He called me out once everyone else was gone. But… he didn't condemn me for disliking the hunt, or not wanting to fight, or any of it. He asked what I preferred to do, and actually listened. It was one of the first times someone had listened to me, or accepted me as I was. My father certainly never did…" The prince laughed quietly. "I made him carry me back to the castle anyway, on his back. The whole way back he was muttering about how cruel it was, when I was perfectly capable of walking and he had to manage both crossbows and his own sword and was wearing chainmail on top of it, and how I could have walked at least as far as the gates if I absolutely had to pretend to be injured."

Cain laughed again, and opened his eyes. "I think I had a crush on him from the very beginning," he admitted, still smiling faintly. He wasn't really looking at Riff. "We grew to be good friends. Riffael was one of the few men I trusted with anything at all, and the only person I trusted with the truth. I kissed him, first, a few days after my sixteenth birthday." Another fond smile played around his lips, and Riff swallowed silently, looking back to his hands. "He had no idea what to do with his hands…" Riff blushed, something he hadn't done in years, and looked back at Cain.

"Riffael was a knight?" he asked instead.

"Yes. His family were minor nobility, and by the time I met them, long dead. Their lands had been on the Northern border, and raiders took the estate and the lives of his family. His younger brother survived, though I never met him. They weren't on speaking terms, as I recall." Cain sighed. "It wasn't through any will of Riffael's, though. I met him two years after the attack, and he was still deeply grieved. Riffael… Riffael was a man of deep emotion and passion, but had extreme difficulty in expressing it. He had a reputation for being coldhearted, aloof, but it wasn't further from the truth. I loved him so much…"

Riff nodded silently. "It's obvious."

"Hm?"

"You're smiling," Riff said simply. Cain blinked, and straightened, but Riff continued, looking down at the half wilted rose. "Thank you, for telling me about Riffael. I'm sure it was painful."

"Riff-" Cain interrupted. "Tell me about you. I don't know much-I don't know enough, and…" he trailed off, but Riff knew what he'd been about to say anyway. He didn't know enough to easily separate the two, when Riff looked so much like his Riffael.

"There are some parallels," Riff admitted with a shrug. "Perhaps Riffael is a family name… as I said, I've never asked my mother. I lost my family less than a year ago to a house fire, though none survived. I made my way to the palace from there, and managed to get a job as a servant. There's really not much else to tell."

"I find that hard to believe," Cain said. "No ambitions before, no dreams? You have a personality somewhere, I'm sure of it."

Riff laughed quietly. "I really don't, sir."

"At least a sense of humor." Riff laughed, and Cain grinned at him. "There we go. You'd probably call me insufferable if I tried to make you carry me."

"You are insufferable, sire, but not for that," Riff said, quite without thinking. He could have kicked himself, but Cain only laughed.

"I knew it! Really, Riff… I'd…" he trailed off. "It's… not fair for me to treat you as Riffael's shadow. He's been dead for so long, and I…"

"Milord," Riff interrupted. "You've only thought of him as dead for a month. And… Sire, if you'll forgive me… I think your father's blindness may have been more of a mercy than you first thought."

Cain gave him a very sharp look. "Explain."

He was treading on thin ice, that much was clear, but it had to be said. "Your father did not believe your relationship with Riffael to be love, and so never considered you might waken to him. He never thought it would work. But.. Milord… Cain, what would have happened if he had allowed Riffael to kiss you?"

"He would have released-" Cain stopped when Riff shook his head.

"He would have only been more careful. You would not have gotten another opportunity to act out as you did with your sleeping curse. You would have had to watch Riffael die, one way or another. From all you have said of your father… he saw you as little more than a tool, and used you, disgracefully. Here, now… with time, I think you could learn to be happy again, happier than you were. There are others here who might care for you, honestly, if you let them-and once the novelty of your awakening wears off. And… at least you were spared the pain of watching Riffael's beheading, and the restrictions afterwards."

Cain remained silent, lips a very thin line. "You've a deplorable talent for touching upon subjects I don't wish to think of," he finally said.

"But they are also subjects you must think of," Riff said, just as quietly. "For any healing to be done, infection must drain away." Cain nodded tightly, and buried his face in his hands. "…I am sorry. I know it must be painful."

"Very."

"If I've overstepped, I-"

"Do not dare finish that sentence," Cain snapped. "Riff… I need a friend right now. Please. I need honesty, not… not servility. I will be mad at you, I will fight, but I need it. Even when I claim I don't."

"…You're being remarkably honest yourself, tonight," Riff said.

Cain scoffed. "Don't get used to it. I swore to myself I would be honest with you tonight, when I told you myself to ask your questions."

"Thank you." Riff wished to take one of his hands, to stroke his hair away from his face. He stayed in his seat, and closed his eyes. "If I could make you happy, I would," he said abruptly, harshly, impulsively.

There was a long, thick silence.

"It's getting late," Cain finally whispered, and stood. "I'll… I'll see you tomorrow, Riff." The servant stood, approaching the closet. "Don't worry about it," Cain added, and touched his arm. "Everything's ready for the morning. Just… please, Riff. Go get some sleep. You look tired."

"…Very well, sir." He was very close. Riff took a step back, until he couldn't smell his soap anymore. "I shall see you in the morning, then."

"Yes. And, Riff-… thank you. I mean it, and I don't say it as often as I should. Thank you, very much."

"You're welcome," Riff said simply. He wasn't sure what else to say. He bowed, and shut the door behind him.

* * *

**A/N: Hello again! It's... been a while, huh? Just some more character development, and a bit more detail about Riffael, which is nice. I've finally made the necessary decisions, but oh my GOD was this chapter like pulling teeth. Once I got started it was easier, but guh. I hate opening lines. I really, truly do... **

**Forgive any typos or basic grammatical errors, please. It's all rough and un-beta-ed, and I finished it five minutes ago, literally. But it's been nearly a month since I updated and the guilt is nibbling away at my intestines, so I thought I had better fix that.**

**Wow, no anonymous reviews again... At least it means that I'm not rambling in the author's notes any more, though that's really the only upside. As always, please review after you've read!**


	5. Chapter 5

**See end of chapter for notes. **

* * *

That Cain had nightmares was unsurprising, but Riff rarely witnessed them. Any night terrors were long past by the time he came to wake his prince, and Cain would never have come to him for comfort. On rare occasions, Riff caught him in the middle of an afternoon nap. Rarer still were those times when Cain slept deeply enough that Riff saw his nightmares.

Today, Cain had jerked back to consciousness while Riff was replacing a wilting bouquet of roses with one of his own (daffodils, and a single pink sprig of daphne mezereon, which had taken far too long to find). Cain had shot to his feet, crouched forward with his hands clenched around the edge of the table. And he was crying, staring ahead without seeing anything, breath whistling between clenched teeth. Riff hurried to him, resting a hand on his arm. "Sire?" The young man tensed further, but Riff ignored his own misgivings and gathered him into a hug, one thumb brushing over his cheeks to banish the tears there. "Hush, milord, it's all right, it was a dream. Nothing more. A dream."

"I know that!" he snapped, but curled into Riff anyway, as if remembering a position he'd forgotten how to take, all angles and tension. "I know that. Don't patronize me, Riff!" Regardless of his words, his hands curled into Riff's collar, and he pressed his face into his shirt.

Carefully, Riff sat in the vacated chair, letting Cain curl into his lap and tuck himself in and away. He said nothing, just rubbed Cain's back and shoulders, letting him shake. Finally, after several long minutes, Cain stilled, and relaxed entirely against Riff's chest. "Better?" Riff whispered. His only reply was a quiet hum, but Cain moved closer. Riff tilted his head and pressed his lips to the prince's hairline.

Immediately, all the tension which had drained out of Cain returned, and he withdrew, standing again in front of the table. His face had gone disturbingly blank. "Never do that again," he ordered, turning away from him.

"I-" Riff swallowed, unsure if he was going to protest or apologize. He hadn't realized what he was doing until it was already done! But… "Yes, sire." But it wasn't his place. It never had been, it had only been Riffael's…

Silently, Riff stood as well, leaving his master staring at the scattered daffodils.

* * *

Something needed to be done. Cain needed someone, and it certainly wasn't going to be him. It could never be him, when Cain could never learn to trust him, or care for him, not when his reflection was Riffael's. But who, then? Cain didn't trust easily-so someone he already trusted. No one from before would still be alive-

Riff paused in his pacing, and buried his face in his hands. No, because the stronger the talent the longer the life. There was a chance the caster who had cursed him in the first place was still alive. His letter certainly seemed to imply… Riff swallowed. Dominic Crehador.

He didn't have much except for a name, but hopefully, hopefully it would be enough. Cain needed someone-and the only person that might possibly be able to help was Dominic Crehador.

* * *

It took a month. Dominic Crehador was living about twenty miles past the Northern border of Cornwall, and turned up at the castle only a day after receiving the message. He was, Riff was pleased to note from the window where he watched, the sort of person who would not take no for an answer. Crehador had stalked up to the front doors of the palace and demanded an audience with the king. It definitely wasn't a request. Riff turned silently away, returning to Cain's room.

Cain had been reading until the commotion outside pulled him away from his book, and, as a result, he was in something of a temper. "Do you have any idea what's going on?" he asked, the moment Riff stepped into the room.

He couldn't have asked for a better opening. "A caster's appeared, asking to speak to the king," he said easily, crossing the room to begin making the bed.

"A caster?" Cain repeated with a frown, tossing the long abandoned book onto the table and standing. "That's a bit unusual as far as protocol is concerned, unless protocol's changed, of course."

"I wouldn't know, sire."

"Mm. Do you know anything else?"

"Not particularly. Though I believe he gave his name as Dominic Crehador…" Riff glanced towards Cain, wondering what sort of effect the statement would have on his prince.

He needn't have worried. Cain had stiffened immediately. "Crehador?" he snapped, rounding on Riff, with something very much like hope in his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"I think so," Riff said with a slight shrug, shaking the sheet out sharply. "It's what I heard, at any rate."

Cain didn't wait for anything more, turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. Riff tucked the sheets in neatly, and smiled to himself. Hopefully Cain would relax now. Hopefully some of his nightmares would stop.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I know I said this was on hiatus, but I really need to get in the habit of just writing through writer's block. It's not good to just sit around and wait for inspiration. So, well, here. It's rough, I know, and probably more than a little disjointed. I don't like it. But here. **

**Two things: **

**1) In reference to the flowers... Daffodils mean "Chivalry; Unequalled love; Regards; You're the only one; The sun is always shining when I'm with you," and Daphne Mezereon mean "I desire to please." **

**2) The next chapter will NOT be in Riff's point of view. Instead, it will likely be in Cain's. It's the only way you'll get all of the conversation between Cain and Crehador, without Riff eavesdropping at any rate, and he wouldn't do that. Honestly, the next scene should PROBABLY have gone into this chapter, but I've let this story languish long enough that I thought it best to put SOMETHING up. **

**No anonymous reviews to reply to this time! So, I'll see you next chapter-which should be soon. **


	6. Chapter 6

**See end of chapter for notes. **

* * *

Cain swept his way through the hallways, only his own dignity preventing him from outright running. Dominic Crehador, Riff had said. But was it actually him? All casters had longer than average life spans caused by their connection with the land-a soul deep connection with something so timeless would of course result in some physical spill-over, as well. But a hundred years? Crehador wasn't that powerful. …Was he?

He burst into the throne room unannounced and with a complete lack of propriety. Neil, and the man standing in front of the throne, both looked up in surprise. The other man smirked. Oh, that was definitely Crehador.

"Dominic Crehador, your hairline is receding," Cain observed, stalking forward.

Crehador, looking closer to fifty than thirty, raised one eyebrow. "I can see your beauty sleep has done little for your personality," he commented airily, before turning back to Neil and offering him an excessively formal bow.

"May I speak with him?" Cain interrupted, before Crehador could say anything more. "Alone."

"Mr. Crehador is someone you know, then?" Neil asked. His fingers tapped against the arm of the throne.

"Yes."

"Then of course. Shall I expect the both of you to dine with me tonight?"

"Of course, sire," the caster said. "It would be an honor." Ignoring the attempt at further pleasantries, Cain turned and left the throne room again, knowing Crehador's curiosity would keep him following.

His chambers were empty when he returned, as was his laundry basket. Riff almost always knew… "I got your letter," Cain said, first. "Though most of the book was blank."

"A book is more likely to be found than a few sheets of paper, and more likely to be preserved. Though I am glad you've read it," he added, claiming Cain's favorite chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. "That was going to be my second question."

"What was the first?"

"Who woke you?"

Cain huffed. He should have expected that. "I… I'm actually not sure."

"Not even a name? Cain, I'm nearly disappointed! I always thought you the sort to kiss and tell. As I recall-"

"Riffael," Cain interrupted, leaning against the table. "His name is Riffael. But he prefers Riff. And he hasn't a last name, or at least one that matters. He's my servant. Crehador," he added, but stopped. He sounded as if he was pleading, and that was unacceptable.

Crehador was watching him closely. "I thought he would," he said at last, leaning forward before Cain could say anything. "You don't know when I left Cornwall, do you?"

"I had assumed after the execution-"

"No. If I had left during Alexis's reign I would have been hunted down, possibly killed. Besides, the life of a fugitive has no interest for me. I left…. oh, nearly fifty years later, well after Alexis's cousin took the throne. Your Neil's father, I believe…"

"Does this have a point?" Cain demanded, hooking one foot behind the other.

"I left after meeting a new blacksmith, a man who looked exactly like Riffael. And there had been another, twenty odd years before, the physician's new apprentice, who had died. An accident in town, a horse panicked and a crate fell. It took him two days to pass, and he died at twenty eight. The same age your Riffael did," Crehador added, though it was unnecessary. It wasn't a number easily forgotten. "I expect the blacksmith died at a similar time."

"What are you suggesting?" Cain asked, crossing his arms. He couldn't quite look at Crehador, damn it all. "Reincarnation?"

"Not in the strictest sense, no." Crehador sighed, and leaned forward on his elbows, folding his fingers in front of his face. "Cain, you were right. Riffael was the only person who would ever be capable of waking you, as the only person who loved you and who had your love in return. I don't believe this Riff you mentioned is Riffael, at least, not in the sense of possessing the same soul. I would need to speak with him to be sure, but…" He sighed, and rubbed at his forehead with one hand. "How to say this… Similar experiences might have formed a similar man, but his personality is built on love for you. Whatever else of Riffael's that may have been lost, it is his love for you that has kept returning."

Cain had gone very still. There was a small, spiderweb system of cracks in one of the flagstones, and this he kept tracing with his eyes. Whatever words he might have said were sticking in his throat. "But-he looks so much… and he acts so much like…"

"Very true. But reincarnated souls are just souls-they rarely have unfinished business from the previous life, so there's no need for overt similarities. A large part of Riffael was bound to life, to _you, _because of the curse. To break the curse, you would need to recognize him. Of course," Crehador added, leaning back in his chair, "this is all merely speculation. Perhaps he is Riffael reincarnate. That is the simplest explanation, after all."

Cain remained silent. The cracks didn't so much resemble a spiderweb as they did a tree…

"We'll never really know," Crehador said. It almost sounded like an apology.

"Who found you?" Cain asked. The words sounded almost broken. He swallowed, and repeated the question, this time successfully.

"A contact of mine said he had a message for me, and gave me a letter. It was anonymous, I'm afraid, so I don't actually know." He pulled a letter out of his pocket and flicked it across the table to Cain. "Concise, though. _Cain Hargreaves is awake. Please return to Cornwall." _

Cain nodded, handing the letter back. "I won't say it again, but… I'm glad you're here, Crehador."

"You honor me beyond my highest expectations and hopes," Crehador said. Cain snatched up a nearby book and whacked him. The caster retaliated with two quick puffs of wind, blowing his hair entirely out of place. Fingercombing it back into a semblance of order, Cain glared at him, before both broke and laughed.

"Your the same as ever," Cain commented, when his hair was no longer in his eyes.

"Funny," Crehador said, "I was about to say the same of you." There was a moment's pause. "…I want to speak to Riff," Crehador said, finally. "There are a few questions I want answered."

"I'll call for him-" Cain started, going towards the door.

"Good. When you've done that, hide behind your screen and don't say a word." Cain turned, raising an eyebrow. "You ought to listen to this, but he'll be more honest if you're not here, I think."

"Why?"

"I just gave you the reason."

"No, why would he be more honest?"

Crehador hummed. "There are some things people are more willing to tell strangers than they are the people they are closest to. Go on, call him, and hide."

"You are ridiculous," the prince grumbled, but did as suggested. There was a stool behind the dressing screen, and he sat on this, tucking his feet up so they wouldn't show.

Crehador nudged the screen slightly, so there was less chance of Riff catching a glimpse of him, and had just enough time for a minor misdirection charm and to take his seat again, before there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Crehador called. Cain heard footsteps as Riff entered, before they paused.

"Where is Master Cain?"

"I sent him away," Crehador said airily. "I wished to speak with you alone. Sit, please."

There was a longer pause, before the sound of a chair being pulled out. "Why did you wish to speak to me, sir?"

"I have a few questions, about Cain," Crehador said. Behind his screen, Cain scowled. "It's one of the reasons I sent him away. Besides, I suspect you'll be slightly more honest without him present." There was a long pause. "You woke him?" Crehador asked, the question casual.

Riff's answer was quiet, almost resigned. "Yes."

"You love him."

"I had thought that obvious," Riff said, tone still resigned. "As you say, I woke him. Presumably, it was my love for him which did so." Cain frowned, fingers tightening on the stool. There was something about this which wasn't… right.

"Elaborate, if you please?"

"You will not tell the prince?"

"No. Cain won't hear a word from my lips."

"He does not love me, and he never shall."

There was a moment's pause. Cain could practically see Crehador's slightly raised eyebrows, the faint surprise, the concern to invite confidences. He had more difficulty imagining Riff. "What makes you say that?" Crehador asked.

Riff laughed quietly, but when he spoke again, it was almost bitter. "He cannot bring himself to trust me. How could I ever expect him to love me?" Cain swallowed, hard.

"Is that true?" Crehador asked again. "Surely not. He has kept you close."

"He has asked for my service, permitted me to read your letter… He even told me of Riffael. But I…" Riff sighed. "I do not believe he trusts me."

"Why not, when he has told you things he would tell no one else?"

The silence this time was thicker. Cain risked leaning slightly to the left, attempting to catch a glimpse of his servant's face. When Riff at last spoke, it was quieter than before, again resigned. "You misunderstand, Lord Crehador. I do not believe he trusts _me._"

Cain managed to catch a glimpse of Riff's face, and straightened, so he wouldn't have to look for any longer. He had seen Riffael take crossbow bolts, daggers, swords, with only a grimace, grit his teeth and fight on. Emotional pain, though, had always crippled him. Apparently, this much was still true of Riff. His face was nearly impassive, but his hands shook, the corners of his mouth were far too tight, and his eyes…

"I begin to understand," Crehador said quietly.

"He cannot look at me without thinking of his Riffael. He trusts the ghost of a man I resemble, not… Not me." Only the need to hear more prevented Cain from rushing out, demanding why he had not said anything to himself, had not quit if he was in so much pain, and so much pain at Cain's hands. "I believe he requested my service because I was a sliver of stability in a new life where he was uncomfortable. I am a familiar face, even if I am not a familiar person. But… he will never trust _me. _And he… needs someone to trust. It's why I sent for you."

That much even Crehador didn't seem to expect. "You found me?"

"Yes, though you made it as difficult as possible. The prince does not trust new people easily, and you were the only person I could think of, who might still be alive. I cannot help him, but perhaps..."

"So you spend so much time on top of your regular duties, in an attempt to find me?" He sounded incredulous.

"Yes, milord."

"You truly love him," Crehador said. There was something very close to respect in his voice.

"Lord Crehador, I would give my life for his safety without hesitation. I would sacrifice my soul for his happiness." Cain stared at his knees.

"Even at the cost of your own?"

Another long silence. Cain held his breath, and tried not to think of how dead Riff's eyes had been, when he had spoken of trust. "That is not important."

Cain swallowed. _You're important, _he wanted to say, _you matter, _but he was a coward, and stayed on his stool behind the screen.

Riff continued. "It hardly matters. It is impossible for me to make him happy. Riffael could, but he is long dead. I am a replacement, little more." _No, _Cain mouthed, and buried his face in his hands. "I know it. I hate it, but… I will stay with him until he wishes otherwise. I can do nothing more."

"I see," Crehador said softly. "I believe I can trust Cain to your care."

"I would never do a thing to harm him, milord," Riff said, sounding sure of himself for the first time during this conversation.

"No," Crehador agreed. "Certainly not on purpose. Do try not to be reckless, however. Cain would be very upset, should you die." Cain shuddered, but whether in guilt or at the thought of Riff's corpse, he wasn't sure.

"Not I, Lord Crehador," Riff corrected him.

"No," Crehador disagreed. There was another scraping of wood on stone as one, then both of them stood. "You. You're dismissed."

For a moment, Riff sounded as if he might protest, or even ask a question of his own, but he only sighed. "Yes, milord."

The prince didn't move until Crehador nudged the dressing screen back.

"Cain?"

Cain unfolded himself from the stool. "I need to think," he said. "Leave me."

Crehador reached out and touched his shoulder, but nodded. "Come find me soon," was all he said, before sweeping out of the room.

It was only after Crehador had left that Cain allowed the grief and guilt and pain to overwhelm him, and began to cry.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this took longer than I expected-some things happened this weekend, like exhaustion and seeing a play, so I didn't get any writing on this done. **

**On a more story-related note... I have a question. I could wrap this up in the next chapter, easily. Or, it could take maybe another two or three, if I decide to include a minor and slightly awkward sub plot, which involves a cliche I enjoy and have used before, but it would give a couple more scenes. Or I can end it in the next chapter. Does anyone have any preferences? Leave me a note, or let me know via the poll on my profile. **

* * *

**Anonymous Review Replies! **

**Pikeeboo: Thank you for reviewing! Hopefully this chapter answered some of your questions. Crehador can help Cain by being someone he might trust, someone he might be willing to talk to about his problems, since (as far as Riff can tell) Cain either cannot or will not open up to him. Hope things are a bit clearer for you!**

* * *

**Finally, I'm going to throw a plug in here for a very close friend of mine's Godchild fic, "A Case of Blackmail," written by poisonandperfection. It's a really, really well written fic, I helped beta it, Cain and Riff have awesome characterizations, and if you can spot all the historical and literary easter eggs I will be highly impressed. Go read! Give her love and reviews! She's really insecure about posting her writing online, and the fic's almost done, so if you want to read everything that happens, tell her so!**

* * *

**Okay, that's it, I think. Thank you for your time, and please leave a review telling me what you think! **


	7. Chapter 7

**See end of chapter for notes.**

* * *

They really weren't all so similar, Cain insisted to himself. The covers were long since bunched at the bottom of the bed, kicked off when his tossing and turning made him overheat. He had spent too much time looking at similarities between them, when the differences were just as apparent. They were.

Riff was younger. Not physically, no, Riff was the same age Riffael had been when they had first met. But… Even at twenty three, Riffael had moved with an assurance born in confidence. He had been secure in himself, aware of himself, in a way Riff was not… Riff felt so much more lost than Riffael ever had been.

Cain flopped over, and pulled the blanket over his head. This train of thought was only making him feel more guilty. Another difference. There were others. Name another.

Their emotions were intense, incredibly so. Riff though, was… Ah, what was the word for it? Sweet, almost. But that wasn't quite it, however accurate. Riff _was _sweet, soft even… Yes, that was it. Riff was softer, and Riffael never could have been. Honorable and noble and steadfast, all of that yes, but soft? Gentle? Almost shy? No, never in a knight.

What else? Riff was more passive than Riffael. He'd never say anything to Cain about his own emotions, particularly after- - Cain curled up, squeezing his eyes shut against a threatening dawn. No, no, he wasn't thinking of that. Not again. He was not thinking about how resigned Riff had sounded, how broken.

However different they were under a shared face, though, there was a similarity Cain could no longer ignore. They both loved him. God alone knew why, after Cain had given him so little reason and so much pain, but Riff loved him as much as Riffael ever had. Perhaps even more.

And wasn't that a scary thought…

But no, no, he had been thinking of differences between the two. He couldn't let himself be distracted, or afraid for him, not now. Afraid for him… "Try not to be reckless," Crehador had said. Riff wasn't reckless. Riff was quiet, and sensible, and the fact that Crehador had meant it entirely made Cain feel cold all over, as if his heart was replaced with ice. Riff wasn't reckless, but Riffael had killed an assassin in his defense, and Riff would do the same thing without a second thought, without a day of training.

This was getting him nowhere. Cain rolled onto his back, then tilted to his feet. The pre dawn light was already filtering through the open window, and he sighed. Taking a moment to splash water on his face, he approached the window and leaned against the sill, still thinking. The sun wasn't even up yet, only its promise washing the garden below in pewter tones.

Someone was moving beneath him. Cain stiffened as he recognized Riff, wondering what on earth he was doing.

The servant didn't glance towards the castle once, certain all its inhabitants must be asleep. He moved too easily through the little pathways, stepping lightly over the irregularities in the ground which were invisible in the low lights. He was looking for something, though Cain couldn't begin to think of what. The realization was slow, but it the evidence was unmistakeable.

Riff had done this before, whatever "this" was. He had to have.

But _what was he doing? _

Half an hour passed. The sky slowly brightened from gray to pink to orange to, finally, blue, and eventually Cain would make out a small bundle of flowers clutched tightly in one hand. Every so often, Riff peered at some slip of paper, comparing it to the small bouquet. Because that's what he had to be doing, making a bouquet.

Cain tucked his shoulders up to his ears for a moment, smiling. He almost laughed (because really, how _adorable_), but hesitated. Who was he making it for? That was a very good question. He'd certainly never given _Cain _flowers.

Had he?

Cain's room always had at least one bouquet of fresh flowers. He'd long gotten used to it, even expected it, but now another question occurred to him which (in his arrogance) never had before. Of course he received flowers from his admirers, but who were those admirers? There was lovely lady Meridianna, the fiery Emmeline, the delicate Luka… But he didn't know who had brought half the bouquets at least.

It couldn't have been Riff. Never… When would he have had the time? Though if this morning's scene was anything to judge by, well before anyone else was awake. How much sleep did he actually get? How much unnecessary work did he give himself? Just to make him, Cain, happy?

_If I could make you happy, I would. _And what was it he had told Crehador? _I would sacrifice my soul for his happiness. _

Cain was still crying when Riff appeared, his legs pulled up to his chest and his face buried in his arms. The servant abandoned the tray immediately and approached the window, hands hovering awkwardly over his shoulders. God, he was afraid to even _touch _him, and yet… Cain choked on his own breath again, feeling an absolute mess.

"Master Cain?" Riff asked, one hand finally reaching out to touch, brushing his hair out of his face. He'd abandoned the breakfast tray on the table, but kept the napkin, and began using it to wipe gently at his tears. "Master Cain, what is it? What's wrong?"

Words, unfortunately, were still beyond Cain's ability, and he shook his head, trembling. He couldn't quite articulate the answer to himself, how could Riff expect actual words?

"Do you… do you need me to go?"

_That_ had a definite answer. "No!" Cain reached out and tangled both hands in Riff's shirt, dragging him closer. "Don't leave, don't you dare ever leave me, Riff!"

And, before he had decided to do it, or quite understood _what _he was doing, Cain pulled himself to his feet so the height difference was in his favor. He almost fell, but he was still clutching at Riff's shirt, and Riff's hands (large and warm and callused and rough and steadying and _Riff_) had covered them, and this was all very good and very important, because Cain _pulled _and their lips met and that, that was what he had wanted.

Riff froze. His grip around Cain's hands loosened, just enough that Cain could let go of his shirt, bring them to his face. Riff's lips were parted, probably from surprise, but Cain didn't care and deepened the kiss. He pulled back just enough to catch at his lower lip with his teeth, earning a wonderfully helpless sound he'd never have heard, if they hadn't been sharing each other's breath. And then Riff touched his hair, and pulled him closer, and Cain sighed into his mouth and brushed his thumbs under his eyes.

The tips of Cain's fingers came away damp, and he pulled away, reluctantly. He was still standing on the window seat, staring down at Riff. Riff, whose hair was mussed, whose shirt was tugged just slightly askew, whose breath was unsteady, and who was staring back at him, desperation and a question burning in his eyes. Cain touched the tips of his fingers to his servant's lips, and the man fell still immediately, eyes slipping closed.

He didn't deserve this, not a single ounce of the devotion and love and care Riff had given him, but he was selfish, and greedy, and would take it anyway.

"Riff…" he breathed. "I know what you said to Crehador yesterday."

The servant pulled away, tense, and with every line of his body screaming its shame. "Master Cain, I-"

Cain caught his collar and pulled him back again, this time covering his mouth with his palm. He felt Riff's breath stutter against his palm, and for a moment could only think of how warm it was, could only remember the taste of that same breath, only scant minutes ago. "And," he added, "I saw you in the garden this morning." His eyes flicked over Riff's shoulder, to the abandoned breakfast tray. "Heliotrope. That's from the garden, isn't it?" Riff opened his mouth to protest, but Cain met his eyes steadily, and he fell still again. "You've been bringing me flowers ever since you became my servant," he said quietly. It couldn't be a question, when they both knew the answer. "And after I told you about that stupid system… I'd meant it as a joke, you know! But… oh, _Riff…" _He leaned forward, kissing the back of his hand where they covered Riff's lips. He couldn't afford to get so distracted, not now. What he was about to say was too important.

Cain pressed their foreheads together, his free hand slipping behind his neck to keep him close. "You've brought my daffodils and heliotrope and daphne and shepherd's purse. Red carnations and white daisies. When I complained of the scent of my rooms, you brought me cedar, _cedar, _I live for thee…" Cain swallowed. Riff had closed his eyes, as if expecting a reprimand. "And I was too damned blind to see it. You've been confessing your love in every act, every word, every gesture, since I woke," Cain breathed. "And I can't understand it. I heard what you said to Crehador yesterday," he repeated. "I heard your resignation, your defeat. I saw how much pain I have been causing you… And I cannot understand it! How are you still here_, _let alone still here and _loving _me, after everything I have done to you…" Cain swallowed, hard. He couldn't cry again, not now. Not now…

They were both still for several long minutes, before Riff stepped back. Cain overbalanced and nearly fell, but Riff had been expecting this and caught him against his chest. Cain expected him to set him back on the floor, as it would have been the sensible thing to do and Riff was invariably sensible, but Riff was also a bit of a romantic, and instead swept him up and carried him to the table, kneeling to place him in the chair. The care in his touch reminded Cain of dolls, delicate, porcelain things that a single mishandling could shatter into a million pieces. Cain wasn't fragile, and he never had been, but Riff treated him as if he was, as if he was precious and valuable and fragile.

He swallowed, hard. "Riff?"

The servant was still kneeling in front of him, head bowed. Finally, he reached out to rest both hands on Cain's knee. "I love you," he breathed, like a condemned man giving a final confession. "I know you love another, that you can not love me. I flatter myself to think you need me, that…" Riff paused. When he continued, his tone was still as steady, still as measured, but his voice was coarser, rougher. "That someday, God willing, perhaps you could even say you need me. I am not Riffael, and I wish I was. Every day, every _hour _I wish I was Riffael, was what you want. I lost myself to you the moment you opened your eyes and smiled at me… I stay because… because I think leaving you would kill me. I know nothing else."

His hands tightened around Cain's knee, and he curled his shoulders forward until his forehead touched the backs of his hands. He was shaking, still. Cain blinked back tears and touched the back of his head.

"I love you," he whispered. Riff twitched, almost flinched, but Cain persisted. He needed to know. "Riff… Riff, I love you. I do. You're kind and gentle and the sweetest person I've ever met. You're hopelessly romantic and soft spoken and I've never heard you swear. I never want to see you hurt again and I hate myself for putting you through such pain." The servant had pulled back slightly, watching him, searching his face for some sign, some assurance of Cain's honesty. "Riff, I love you," Cain repeated, reaching out to brush fingers against the curve of Riff's cheek, to draw him closer again.

"Not because of…"

"No," Cain interrupted, leaning down close enough to brush their lips together in a chaste, teasing kiss. "No. Because of who _you _are, Riff. I swear it. I love _you._"

Riff shuddered, and Cain slipped off the chair entirely. Instead, he curled into his lap, murmuring apologies and promises into his neck. Riff wrapped his arms around Cain's shoulders and pulled him close, rocking back and forth, as if he was still in pain, or perhaps so relieved and happy it felt like pain.

Well, if so… That was all right. Cain would help, as best he could, because Riff had always helped him. And Cain loved him, he knew that now, and could admit that now. It may take a while, but they would be all right. No, not just all right. They would be happy.

* * *

On the windowsill a butterfly fluttered: once, twice, before the little thing rose into the air and rode the currents out into the gardens. For a moment, its wings reflected the rising sun as armor might…

…but when the glare faded, it was gone.

* * *

**A/N: Oh my God, it's actually done... **

**I am SO sorry this took so long... it's really inexcusable. But it's done, it really is. No more. Sorry, everyone! If there are other snippets published in this, they'll be as separate one shots... But, well, don't hold your breath. I don't really have much else to say in this 'verse. They've got a long way to go before they're one hundred percent comfortable with each other, but they've started, and that's the important thing.**

**Bits of this fic surprised me... Pleasantly surprised me, but surprised me. It was much more bittersweet than I expected... and I certainly hadn't expected the flowers to be so important. (Kind of glad I nixed the early scene of Cain figuring out Riff's been bringing him flowers and teasing him for it. This is much more meaningful, and I definitely prefer it.)**

* * *

Flowers mentioned this chapter and meanings:

Daffodils: Chivalry, unequalled love, regards, I send my regards, You're the only one, The sun is always shining when I am with you.  
Heliotrope: Devotion  
Daphne: I desire to please  
Shepherd's Purse: I offer you my all  
Red Carnations: My heart aches for you  
White Daisies: I'll never tell  
Cedar: Think of me, I live for thee

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed the fic, and to those of you who have watched it through to its conclusion... Thank you so much for your patience.**

* * *

**Anonymous Review Replies! **

**Pikeebo: **

**I've been going back and forth the entire fic on whether or not Crehador was going to still be alive... I knew from the beginning that I had a way for it to be possible (which I hope came through in the narration itself) and I also knew that Cain really was going to need a kick in the ass before he could do anything about Riff. Crehador is something of an expert at providing that kick in the ass... I'm a little disappointed in myself that I didn't bring him in this chapter, too, but it just... well, seemed unnecessary. He's probably still hanging around the castle somewhere, making trouble and being sassy. **

**Hopefully this chapter eased some of your fears about Riff's relation to Cain.**


End file.
